The old forget, or so I’m told,
when they come in from out the cold.
They oft repeat the tale they tell.
Their homes breathe out a special smell.
The old were young in days gone by,
as beautiful as butterfly,
till time crept up on them too soon,
entwined them in a cruel cocoon.
The old can laugh and joke and smile.
Their skin’s as thick as crocodile.
They\'re armor-clad ‘gainst all attacks,
bombastic as a battle-axe!
The old are fearless, so, offend.
Their bodies are too hard to bend,
but with their tongues they still can lash
the hypocrites and trailer trash.
The old survived; they’ve lived to tell
the secrets of the sounding shell.
Alone, washed up on shifting sand?
Go tell the old, they’ll understand!